


To the Next Barricade

by Gokurakutei, Patronus_Stag



Series: LesMis Stories by Gokurakutei [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical dialogues, Censorship, Gen, Insurgent, M/M, Multi, Police Violence, Revolution, They were entering a grave illuminated by the dawn., Translation, Translation from Chinese, White Terror, lots of references to Hugo's novel, mentioned torture, totalitarianism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-16 13:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14812577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gokurakutei/pseuds/Gokurakutei, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patronus_Stag/pseuds/Patronus_Stag
Summary: What happened on a contemporary barricade. Possibly reincarnation.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [下一个街垒](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4375451) by [Gokurakutei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gokurakutei/pseuds/Gokurakutei). 



> Another story largely based on conversations, with balderdash backgrounds and gibberish ideologies. I need to announce that I have no idea what I’m writing about.
> 
> Enjolras is a bit more kind and positive toward R because of the modern setting. Lots of references to Hugo’s novel. E/R, the friends of ABC, Monsieur and Madame Pontmercy simply disappeared.
> 
> HE. I do not own them.
> 
> *It has a loose prequel: Enjolras and Three Drinks in Hell, translation also available here https://archiveofourown.org/works/14725869

 

 ＊＊＊

 

Enjolras was advancing.

 

In a vast wheat field, Enjolras was moving fast along the flat ridges. The pitch-black sky was gradually turning into a miserable grey color. Dim light faintly seeped from the distant horizon, giving it a tint of warmth. Surrounding the light were thick clouds with storms breeding inside. They slowly and quietly surged around the centre of the radiation. A gigantic red monster was about to roar out of the skyline, setting light to everything.

 

His eyes quickly located the target. A hidden animal path that stretched into the field.  
 

  
Enjolras walked off the ridge, and tried his best not to tramp over more straws than those already crushed by the last traveller. The spikes on their panicles kept sweeping over his legs and gave him slight stings, like the prickly yet gentle tails of some wild animal. Not far away, a confusion of wings fluttering suddenly broke out. It was produced by the crows that recklessly pestered the field before the dawn. Yet they were easily scared by the trivial movements of wind and grass, and the flock dissipated all in an instant. He stopped at the end of the path. In front of him, a small area of wheat was pressed flat.

 

Before he got the chance to speak, the man lying there opened his eyes. There suddenly came a strong wind, and the boundless wheat field transformed into a turbulent sea of gold.

 

The sun had come up. 

 

Grantaire was lying on his arms. He smiled to Enjolras without moving.

 

“Good morning, Apollo.”

 

“You were sleeping.”

 

“I was waiting for the sun.”

 

“They said you were going to the experiment field. I thought you had decided to undertake the sentry’s duty on some random whim.”

 

“I’m sorry to let you down.” 

 

“Not that much.”

 

“I plan to take some photos of the sunrise on the last day of my life.”

  
   
“First, today is not the last day of your life. Second, you didn’t bring a camera.”

 

“Haven’t you heard that human eyes are the best cameras? Apart from that, since there’s no chance to develop the films, I guess less formalities will save me some time.” 

 

“You should have done it two decades ago.”

  
   
“Then you would get a more cynical Grantaire, perhaps starkly naked, let stuffs in and out all in a barrel. Really, what do you come for, Enjolras? Offering the last chance of salvation to the sinners in Sodom before doomsday?”

 

“To give you my greetings, and ask what can I do for you.”

  
   
“Oh dear, did I just heard Enjolras joking? Now I do regret not taking my camera with me, or even better, a video recorder. ‘Yes, King Alexander, stand out of my sunlight.’ For the sake of God I will give not such a reply. The Sun himself is standing in front of me.”

 

“The joke stops here. We must leave. The air strikes and skirmishes are over. They will launch total attack in the morning. We have information that the first wave will come from this direction."

 

“You are worried about me. You come specially from the barricade because you are worried that I might be caught in the attack.”

 

“……”

 

“But why…why you? You could have sent Courfeyrac, or Feuilly, Bahorel. Why should you come under the risk of being hit? Oh, I see. You are not the type that allows others to take risk for you. But you don’t have to, you could have just…”

 

“I should say this a long time ago: You talk too much. Hurry, the attack may start at any minute.

 

“……”

 

Enjolras looked down at him with a blank face, his hand still stretching in the air patiently. It seemed that Grantaire had finally grasped the situation. He rubbed his dusty right hand on his shirt, before reaching it out to Enjolras with great hesitation. He looked as if about to touch a holy sculpture, rather than holding his hand. His was about to touch Enjolras’ fingertips— 

 

Within fifty yards from them, an artillery shell landed like a thunderbolt, before exploding with a deafening bang, shooting heat waves and black smoke everywhere. The wheat field caught fire, and the air smelt like gunpowder, charcoal, and the aroma of overcooked bread.

 

Enjolras dragged Grantaire up with surprising strength, gripped his hand tightly and rushed towards the opposite direction. There was no time to worry about the wheat now.

 

In the golden field that extended to infinity, two young men were running straight towards the barricade at full speed. Bunches of wheatears were brought down by them with every step.

 

A blood-red sun was rising behind their back, and death kept chasing relentlessly just a few steps away.

 

TBC. 

 


	2. 1

 

＊＊＊

**1**

 

It all started with the passing of Morality Act.

 

Most of the terrible things had a harmless appearance at the beginning. First a young political party came to power, then a series of nonessential bans, like smoking in public places, and loud talks on transportations. Such orders were warmly welcomed by people who had long been annoyed by others’ ill-mannered behaviours. After the new Prime Minister’s New Year speech about “reforming moral values and rebuilding the principle of justice”, some more sensitive newspapers and websites became the first to get the hint. Their articles endorsing the new policy received very positive responses. Some of the more progressive readers even commented: “The conscience of the media has come back!” Seeing the situation, other small press were quick to follow. For a time, the social mainstream was filled with a joyful atmosphere.

 

The public were even more satisfied with the campaigning strategy of the new ruling party. It didn’t seem to have any intention in charming people with a charismatic leader, and even downplayed the personal influence of government officials. When the voting month came again three years later, the giant screen outside a downtown mansion simply showed the silver diamond emblem of the party, and a pithy line: “Morality is beauty”. With the pure white background, it formed a sharp contrast with that old man with a dull smile on the other building. (That is, apparently the most decent photo they can find for the leader of the opposition party.) The tide was so obvious, that several days before the result came out, even their own campaign team deemed it unnecessary to suffer meaningless humiliation, and let the advertising space to an organic food manufacturer. Some had been posting sarcastically on social media that “When seeing the portrait of farm girls and slogans about ‘a healthy future’, I thought it was the campaign poster of a third party.”

 

The ruling party won the re-election in a landslide. That night, Paris didn’t seem to sleep at all. People were crying with joy and kissing strangers under the broadcasting screens on the city square. After it, various self-organized celebrations continued to last for a whole week. The government seemed to be greatly encouraged by the re-election. It further announced a number of policies and moral-related legislations that aimed to provide guidance for the community. Some of the regulations were more personal, ranging from a total ban on youth smoking and asking payment after helping others. A few months later, abortion and suicide were also made illegal. These decrees were combined with those issued during the last term and were collectively referred to as the “Morality Act”.

 

Within a month of the new act going into effect, the government decided that since “the unhealthy habits can’t be rectified by initiative in a short time”, a new department will be found to monitor the implementation of the Morality Act, and it would have the power to stop, investigate and detain “those who have immoral behaviors”. The full name of the department was too long to remember. When talking about it, people often called it “grey police” based on the color of its staffs’ uniform—light grey shirts and dark grey ties. (Although they didn’t belong to the police department.)

 

Occasionally, theses grey police could be seen arresting or fining “immoral offenders” on the street. Passing pedestrians would applaud and hail them to show their approval, and start to examine themselves, hoping more eagerly to become “a citizen with perfect moral principles”. At that time, the majority of the population hadn't realized anything wrong.

 

It was around this time when Grantaire got to know the ABC.

 

On a winter night, when he was sitting in his rented small flat, torn between going out in the terrible weather to get some snacks and staying on his spot to finish the rented movie, a message from Courfeyrac popped up on his phone, asking him if he wanted to come to the meeting tonight.

 

“What meeting?”

 

“The Friends of the ABC, a new student group, at Café Musian.”

 

“No thanks.”

 

“Come on!”

 

“I’m halfway through the movie.”

 

“We also serve good drinks here.”

 

“On my way.”

 

When Grantaire, all frozen and trembling, finally entered Musian’s door, and shut the piecing cold wind of Paris outside, the meeting had already began.

 

“—but may I ask, what is the definition of morality? Where is its border? Who has the right to set its standard. No, we are not against morality, quite the oppose, we stand for it. We need noble souls and great personalities. However, we are the ones who should be thinking about it and make the selection. Only we have the right. The government need not to, and absolutely shouldn’t spread its values and interfere with our own choices. This is not a moral problem. This is a question of free will—”

 

Under the warm light, surrounded by the aroma of coffee, wine, steak and tobacco, a young man with glasses were talking in front of a chair. Around him were a group of people just as absorbed. The television on the wall was on, but the volume had been turned down to the minimum. Grantaire spotted Courfeyrac's brown curl among the crowd, so he gladly rubbed his rigid hands in the warm air, before walking around the crowd and settling beside him quietly.

 

“Where’s my drink?” is the first thing Grantaire asked. He didn’t forget to lower his voice in case being thrown out.

 

“Reserved for you. This one’s on me.” Courfeyrac shrugged, knuckles giving a tap to the bottle on the table.

 

“You’re the best.” In front of a bottle of unopened good wine, Grantaire never talked too much.

 

“—In nature, there are things unripe, and in our society, there’re mediocre works. When you see a third rater novelist showing off rhetorics, you can laugh as much as you want. However, you cannot say that “Because he writes rubbish, we should ban him from writing.” Everything has its own reason to exist. As long as they don’t harm others, their right to exist shouldn’t be denied based on somebody’s personal preference.”

 

“I like him.” With a sip or two, Grantaire started to talk rubbish.

 

“Who doesn’t?”

  
   
After receiving the applaud at the end of his speech, Combeferre took his glasses off and walked back to the side of Courfeyrac while wiping them.

 

“New face?” He put the glasses back on, and observed Grantaire curiously.

  
   
“Combeferre, our live encyclopaedia and guide.” Courfeyrac lazily introduced them to each other, “And Grantaire, a—”

  
   
“A wine-cask, love girls more than good wine.” Grantaire rose his half-empty glass to Combeferre as a salute. Another person also heard his words and laughed, he rose his glass to toast him from the other side of the room.

  
   
“Where’s Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asked Combeferre after looking around.

  
   
“He had to go home, his family had sent for him.”

  
   
“Oh, calling him back to become Master Enjolras?”

  
   
“A sharp guess.” Combeferre let out a sigh, “They also brought quite some photos of the girls who wish to become Madame Enjolras. Poor man, he’s going to have a hard time these days.”

  
   
“While my pities are for the girls, ” Courfeyrac giggled, “Can you imagine any of them stay composed under the gaze of an angel of Judgement for more than five minutes?”

 

“Who is this Judgement angel Enjolras?” Grantaire’s interest was aroused.

 

“Our chief.” said Courfeyrac.

 

“I thought you were the chief, as usual.”

 

“Well, you will see next time when you meet him.” Combeferre laughed and exchanged a look with Courfeyrac, answering the question for him.

  
   
“It gives me a good reason for another drink.” Grantaire shook his glass and said to Combeferre, “give my thanks to this Enjolras.”

 

“Believe me, you won’t want him to do it.” Courfeyrac could hardly hold back a smile.

 

“Why? Is he a moralist? I thought you were a radical anti-government group.” Grantaire said daringly.

  
   
“All the same, you will understand when you see him. Besides, in fact our organization aims at the education and enlightenment of children…This is the official story. ” Combeferre said seriously. “Just as our name says, the Friends of the Abaissé [abased], to those who are oppressed, we will be on their side; to those depraved of freedom, we will help them regain it, to those whose eyes are covered, we will remove the blindfold……This is the enlightenment of children in another sense.

 

“So, an anti-government group still.”

  
   
“…Under the current situation, you could say so.” Combeferre nodded grudgingly, gesturing towards others in the room, “Most of us are here today. The proprietress here, Eponine, is one of us. The one who just toasted you is Bossuet—no, he is also a college student, not somebody’s father—”The girl who is cuddling him is Musichetta. He is her lover. That pallid young man holding her other hand is Joly, a junior at my medical school. He is also her lover. (“I’m confused.” Grantaire interrupted. “You’ll get used to it.” said Courfeyrac.) That one in the red vest, and drinking Whiskey is Bahorel, the one facing him is Feuilly. He is the one who’s not in college. Now, only Jehan and Enjolras aren’t here.”

 

“Jehan is really busy with publishing his poems.” Courfeyrac explained, “and you’ve seen Jehan before, Grantaire, he’s my roommate, that handsome poet.”

 

At this moment, Feuilly, the tall guy suddenly stood up. He gestured everyone to be quiet while pressing the remote control. Grantaire turned back to watch. The anchorwoman was presenting a breaking news with a broad smile:

“—therefore, in order to ensure the safety of all law enforcement personnel and the general public, all action teams will be equipped with firearms within one month in order to deter the criminals who are against the Morality Act, maintain the stability of our society and make sure that the act is effectively……”

 

“Guillotine.” Combeferre muttered in a low voice, like some hooded soothsayer speaking inscrutable words in the middle ages. It somehow caused the hair on the back of Grantaire’s neck to stand. The suffocating atmosphere quickly became unbearable. He looked around at loss before suddenly realizing that heavy snow was falling from the sky outside the windows.

  
 

TBC.

 


	3. 2

 

 ＊＊＊

**2**

 

Two weeks later, a new censorship system was set up. All publications needed to be reviewed before going public. Authors who were considered to have violated moral standards could even be fined and arrested. The ABCs originally thought this was just another small move that targeted at pornography, violence, and other marginal publications. No one thought too much at first, but before long, the new order had came for them.

 

On New Year’s Eve, Grantaire came to Musian for free wine as usual. He realized that crowd at the meeting had grown significantly in the past few weeks. A part from the backbones of the group, they now had a dozen new auditors in the room. The atmosphere at the meeting was much more relaxed than usual, perhaps because of the coming holiday. Many people stayed after eleven o’clock, chatting delightfully with warm wine in their hands. It seemed that they plan to celebrate the new year here. After eleven o’clock, many people still hadn’t leave. They were chatting delightfully and drinking warm wine, planning to celebrate the new year here in Musian. The students moved the chairs to form a circle. Small talks took the place of ardent speeches, and causal looks of serious faces. After all, tonight was New Year’s Eve. But Grantaire would not give it a rest. With a mind dizzy with alcohol, he kept pestering the talk with bitter derisions and other unreasonable comments, sometimes even digressed the topic to the other side of the Earth.   

 

“...The deaths of the sages are not empty. Yes, it is the freedom of thought. If people’s thought is not free, they will become mere mechanical parts of a society. But we are humans…Some may argue that every decision was made via democratic voting, and democracy means just.  However, if those people don’t fully understand their choice, what does that make of democracy? How is it different from the vote held in aboriginal tribes to determine who should be sacrificed to the wizard or their god? This is not democracy, but a simple majority. And the arbitrary rule of majority is among the most terrible things mankind had ever invented. France gets its most fierce, proud and painful memories all from the revolutionary era, and “the will of the people” is to be held responsible for all of it. That is why the public need to be enlightened. Yet look at the current situation, there’s not even one person left who is willing to defend the freedom of speech in public……”Bahorel sat straight in the chair and spoke to the group, his knuckles knocking the desk with indignation.

 

“But Voltaire himself was a supporter of enlightened monarchs. Listen to it, a enlightened monarch!” Grantaire shouted from the other side of the room. “Our ancient France has one special characteristic, that it always has the illusion that some angel will descend from heaven to make the right decision for us. During the feudalist ages, we looked upon the heroic knights and fair landlords; during the revolutionary era, we counted on the pamphlets written by certain progressive intellectuals. Now we are our own masters, and have gained the right to make decisions for ourselves, yet no one seems to know what to do with it. We persecute the dissenters, we follow the mainstream, we repeat what others’ say in case being excluded. History keeps moving forward, but our mindsets are little different from centuries’s ago—when the government made some standard for “a model citizen” or whatever, we let out a sigh of great relief, rejoicing that we don’t have to think for ourselves and fleeing toward its protection in a swarm. Well, speaking of fleeing, Voltaire himself was an expert. Running away hand in had with young girls in his early days, taking refuge in his mistress’s house when persecuted, escaping from his enlightened monarch after a quarrel. Even after he was dead, the man decided to flee from God via the other end of his coffin under the church yard if he was to be sent to the hell.”

 

Bahorel gave a loud whistle at his remarks.

 

“Grand R, how can a drunkard speak so disrespectfully to a great scholar?” Courfeyrac was amused, and chided him with eyes comically widened. Combeferre cleared his throat, about to defend this King of thought—

 

The door opened with a squeak.

 

Jehan was standing in the doorway, with unmelted snow all over his head and clothes. His face was paper white.

 

“What happened? You look very pale.” Joly was startled. He stood up, and reached out a hand to feel his forehead. “Is it a cold? Gastric bleeding?”

 

Jehan didn’t reply, just stared at Joly with trembling lips. He wasn’t able to speak until after a while:

“My poems are banned.”

 

“What?” Combeferre couldn’t believe his ears, “But…”

 

—Why? Are there any poem less harmful than those about summer flowers, benevolent God, and faithful love?

 

“They say… this kind of catharsis of sentiment has nothing to do with advocating moral principles, thus doesn’t fit the higher need of the people……”

 

“The people! Ha!” Someone repeated ironically.

 

After a few seconds of silence, Combeferre walked to the centre of the room and spoke to the group:

“Friends, we’ve made a mistake.”

 

Except from Grantaire who was unwilling to give up the wine, everybody stood up silently, and formed a circle around Combeferre to listen.

 

“We paid too little attention to the government’s scheme, and underestimated the censorship system. I confess to all of you, that before Jehan came in a few minutes ago, I saw it as another small clause under the Morality Act. At first, we criticized that, what makes us human is we have our own judgement, as opposed to act according to articles and charters. We love our mothers, not because the law says so, but because she is my mother. We are angry to injustice, praising to kindness, not because the law forces us, but because we all have a heart. Considering this, the so-called Morality Act is denying us our humanity. However, We have all seen that the censorship is not targeting vulgar expressions, obscenity in art, or other immoral behaviors, but all thoughts that doesn’t agree with it. In other words, it is targeting all free people who’d rather keep their thoughts independent. It forces us to be like worker ants, only recognise a single pheromone from the middle of their den. Look at Jehan’s poems, they are banned simply because they do not talk about the high morals—they have decided to control what poems we should read. It means, they have decided to regulate what we have in our mind. You Courfeyrac, should think in accordance with article forty-five, section six. Joly, yours is article fifty, section four. It is not just a censorship of publications, but a censorship of thoughts. This is political persecution, this is thought crime.”

 

“We cannot just sit down and watch it happen” Grantaire heard Bossuet’s voice.

 

“Who could have known that things would come to this？Throughout our history, no dictators have ever dared to openly push this agenda. The new government is smart enough to exploit the most notable weakness of the public: the desire to stay on moral high ground with the majority.” came the voice of Feuilly. 

 

“So, history can’t give us much experience in this case—it is something that we’ve never seen before.” This was the worried voice of Musichetta.

 

“No, that’s merely the appearance. ” The door was pushed open again. Another voice, calm and powerful, came from the entrance with a gust of cold wind. The New Year's bell could be heard dimly from the big screen at the other side of the city. “After all, there is nothing new under the sun.”

 

The second strike.

 

“Enjolras!” “It’s Enjolras” “Enjolras is back.” “That is Enjolras?”

 

A swirl of excited whispers swept over the crowd, as if they were talking about a God’s messenger who carried the prophecy. Then came some hustling noise. It sounded like the crowd was parting to make way for the newcomer.

 

The sixth strike.

 

Grantaire rose up his head curiously, wondering if this Enjolras had a large grey beard like Socrates. But his sight was blocked by the crowd. At last, he had to stand up. Through many shoulders and heads, he looked towards the centre of the room with much difficulty.

 

The eighth strike.

 

His eyes instantly caught Enjolras’ figure.

 

The tenth.

 

The sun crashed into his eyes, exploded and burnt everything. The whole world was blinding gold and pure white.

 

Apollo himself was inspecting his believers slowly in the parted Red Sea. His golden waves were glittering under the chandelier. The inviolable solemnity in those blue eyes bordered cruelty.

 

“We shall rise up and resist.” said Enjolras.

 

The bell struck for the last time. The old year died abruptly at this moment, and the new year was born.

 

A violent storm of ecstasy was soaring in Grantaire’s chest. He was struck by an irrepressible impulse to laugh out loud.

 

 

TBC

 


	4. 3

 

＊＊＊

 

3

 

It was almost two o’clock in the morning when the discussion finally came to an end. Most of the group members had left with hopes for the New Year and excitement for future actions. Only Enjolras and Combeferre were still standing in the room, exchanging opinions. Grantaire pretended he wanted to finish the last drop of wine in order to lag behind. His eyes kept glancing towards their direction.

 

Enjolras’s blond hair was dampened by the melted snow. His skin was pale due to coldness, but the terrible wind and snow had given his cheeks a rosy shade. He hadn’t had time to take off that travel-worn black coat, and the buttons on it were fastened neatly to the collar. The leather case at his foot still had the luggage tag on. He had probably come straight from the airport. At the moment, he was talking to Combeferre seriously with gestures.

 

Grantaire listened attentively.

  

“But there’s one thing we must pay special attention: make sure that all members are trustworthy. The road ahead of us is only becoming more perilous. Ours ranks don’t need three kinds of people: whimsical rich boys, problem-poking rascals, and enemies in disguise—”

 

“So it will be a revolution? A revolution in modern times? Perhaps we can tie a tricolor banner on our waist and go marching on the streets or something. But to start a revolution? The cost of revolution is much dear than a banner. Gentlemen, what this insatiable lady demands is fresh blood and youth.” Grantaire spoke out rashly while walking towards the two. He could feel his hand sweating, but he thought it was because of the alcohol.” “You watch that movie, and decide to blow up the parliament too for a noble ideal. While nobody is going to stand out with the mask. Not one. They are “the people” often mentioned by you and the government as well. What does that line say? ‘Ideas are bullet proof.’ But you are not. You are too young, and too eager to throw away your lives. You could have been pierced by a bullet at the scene, or rot in the prison cell later, or become one of those mosaicked examples in a public execution, watched by the whole country. Yes, you will all die in the end.”

 

Grantaire finished in one breath without realizing what he was doing. He seemed like a potential bipolar patient whose mind failed to control the mouth again.

 

The young god turned back, and frowned to him.

 

“Forgive me.” said Enjolras with a stern face, and an overly polite tongue.

 

“You are drunk, grand R.” Combeferre shook his head and tried to save the conversation, “This is our chief you’ve heard before, Enjolras. Enjolras, this is Grantaire. People call him grand R.”

 

“Yes, Enjolras! When people talk about you, they seem to be talking about the very person of Immanuel of Nazareth. I finally understand it now, clears as the Revelations.” Grantaire didn’t take the step down given by Combeferre, but drivelled even more recklessly. “I am sure you are willing to become Joan of Arc of our times, burnt into ashes alone for France’s sake. Wait, you also want to lead a large group of people to sacrifice themselves at the altar of liberty. You see liberty as the essence of life, but the people you are willing to die for do not. They will shed a few drops of tears for you if you were to die today, but when tomorrow comes, and your blood is wiped clean, they will come back and hold a dancing party. They will dance right on the bricks soaked by your blood.This is the heartless Marianna.

 

Enjolras’s brows were still furrowed, but he patiently waited Grantaire to finish, and replied unperturbed:

 

 “I cannot agree with you.”

 

 Grantaire was suddenly awaken from the stupor as if a thousand church bells were ringing to his ears at the same time. He was so close to Enjolras, face to face, gaping at his icy blue eyes. His endless speech suddenly disappeared like drops of water poured into a furnace. His mind and tongue failed him—how can a mortal man argue with god?

  

So he lowered his eyes and said almost obediently:

“You are right. Please accept my apology. I’ve had too much absinth and wine tonight.”

 

Not waiting for Enjolras to speak again, Grantaire hurried away with unsteady steps. He reached the door of the Café in a few seconds, and escaped into the snowy night.

 

It was utterly dark outside. The whole block was illuminated by a dim streetlight outside of Musian, making it a lonely beacon between the earth and the starless sky. The snow was already a few inches thick. 

 

Grantaire shuddered and suddenly realized that his back was covered with sweat. The chill of the late night wind soaked into his bone despite all the hot wines he drank earlier. He wiped his face with hand, then thrust them back into the pocket. He tried to shrink into the coat as much as possible, and silently trudged towards his apartment step by step.”

  

“Please wait a moment.” Enjolras’ voice came from behind.

 

Grantaire turned back, unbelievable.

 

Enjolras closed Musian’s door backhand, and walked towards Grantaire. Combeferre was not with him.

 

Grantaire was unsure how to react. He pulled out his hand from the pocket hastily, while the cold wind quickly forced him to clench fists and shrink them back into the sleeves.

  

“About your speech.” said Enjolras seriously.

 

“…Yes? ”

 

“Though I didn’t agree with it, I can see that you mean no harm. ”

 

“Yes—I mean no, I…”

 

“Combeferre says you aren't usually so—passionate. So I think there must be some misunderstandings between us.” Enjolras was weighing his words, and stretched out his hand to Grantaire earnestly. 

 

Grantaire stared at that hand for a good few seconds, before figuring out that Enjolras was trying to shake his hand. He felt all his strength was drawn out that very second. 

 

With light from the windows of Musian, Enjolras’ profile was softened by a warm golden glow, while behind Grantaire was the snow-covered streets of Paris, shrouded by centuries of dark shadows. Grantaire cringed in the freezing wind. He was about to take that hand for a couple of times, but ended up putting his hand back to the pocket under the surprised gaze of Enjolras.

 

The moment Enjolras offered him his hand, Grantaire knew what kind of person he was talking to.

 

He shunned from Enjolras’ eyes, and bent down painfully as if punched hard on the stomach. Cold wind poured into the back of his neck, freezing him from head to toe.

 

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras lowered his hand,unable to grasp the situation.

 

“You don’t understand…you…” Grantaire’s words were broken. He looked awkward, and somehow desperate.

 

“I’m not sure what you are trying to say.”

 

“Then you should probably go back. Combeferre is still waiting.” Grantaire composed himself. He stood up straight again, gave Enjolras a sorrowful smile, before turning away.

 

Enjolras was left on the spot. Half annoyed and half confused, he watched Grantaire’s faltering yet resolute figure moving away in the snow. Combeferre walked towards him while putting on his gloves.

 

“What happened?” he asked.

 

“Grantaire won’t shake hands with me. He said that I did’t understand. I do not understand indeed.”

 

“What?” Combeferre was amazed. He looked at Grantaire, who was walking away in the darkness, then at Enjolras, who combed his blonde hair with a hand, apparently troubled, and laughed, “No, no.”

 

“What?” asked Enjolras again.

 

“I’m afraid that is not my word to say, Enjolras. Perhaps you’ll see it in the end.” Combeferre smiled quietly, and rose a hand to stop Enjolras from further inquiry. “Come, you need to go home and rest, and we still need you tomorrow.”

 

TBC.

 

 


	5. 4

 

＊＊＊

 

**4**

  
Despite it was already three o’clock when he arrived home, Enjolras got up at seven as usual, and went out at eight. After catching up with liaisons all over Paris, at four o’clock in the afternoon, he was finally able to return to Musian with boots covered by snow and mud.

  
Before he had time to brush away the snow on his shoulders, Enjolras was met by Grantaire’s passionate ravings and alcoholic breath.

  
“Ma’am Hucheloup! Come here, I want to kiss your cheeks for the delicious wine! You look so young today, no more than twenty years old!

  
“Because I am twenty! Watch your mouth, or get out to your Corinth!” The young proprietress of Musian gave Grantaire a not-so-slight kick on the bottom, and patted away the arm he reached out to hold her waist. The room broke into laugher.

  
“…Alcohol overdose…memory recession…lose sense of reality…” mumbled Joly while typing on his phone at flying speed.

  
With a tray on her hand, Eponine turned back gracefully, and spotted Enjolras at the doorstep. She gave a delightful salute to Enjolras: “We are all waiting for you, Enjolras, ”

  
Eponine was also a college student, and a very capable member of ABC. After her parents, Monsieur and Madame Thenardier, were both jailed for moral crimes, she had to take over the family cafe herself, and tend the place everyday after class. She couldn’t afford to hire other workers, while after the well-connected Courfeyrac joined the group, and Musian became the long-term base of a fast growing ABC, many considerate members volunteered to help her to wash the dishes and clean the tables. Because of it, she now often had free time to joint the heated discussion.

  
“My fault, Combeferre. Here is a girl who doesn’t embarrass herself when talking to Enjolras.” said Courfeyrac raising both hand, “And you of course, with all due respect.”The second half was to Musichetta, who blinked back to him with eyes charming as those of fortune-telling women.

  
Enjolras sat down, and was annoyed to find that Grantaire was drunk again, and had already fell asleep in the same corner. While he quickly decided to drop the issue, and cleared his throat to remind the group that it was time for serious matters.

   
“Ah, yes.” Combeferre followed up immediately, “I was discussing with Courfey before you come—I think we should help Jehan to publish his poems.”

  
Jehan looked up hopefully from the fluffy kitten photos on his phone screen. His eyes were wet.

  
“I agree with Combeferre.” Courfeyrac nodded, “Since the government won’t allow it to go to press via the publishing houses, we will print the collection ourselves.”

“That’s a good idea.” said Bossuet, “We should give out the pamphlets to those who are interested in our cause. It can spread our ideas effectively. ”

  
“But how? We don’t have the equipment.”asked Joly, “You can’t rely on home printers and A4 paper, the result will be like school exercise books. ”

  
“I know some workers from the printing factory. They aren’t happy with the new policy either—mostly because the amount of orders dropped sharply. Some of them are bold and with revolutionary tendencies, I can try to reach them.” Feuilly rose his hand.

  
“But we cannot trust them with all the work. The risk is too high.” Combeferre pointed out.

  
“We can do the typographies ourselves.” said Bossuet, “Musichetta is learning graphic design, isn’t it dear? ”

  
Musichetta curtsied the group elegantly like a ballet dancer.

  
“So, it is all sorted.” Courfeyrac clapped his hands, and glanced enquiringly at Enjolras.

  
“Good. Let’s start working.” Enjolras nodded, “Jehan, do you still have a backup.”

  
“Yes, I still keep the original, but they were handwritten.”

  
“Then, Jehan, please go home to get it; Courfeyrac, could you borrow some laptops? Feuilly, please go to the printing factory and talk to the workers, contact me immediately about the result. The rest of you, we will distribute the work as soon as we get the manuscript and the computers. The last part of work will be on Musichetta.”

  
“Got it” “No problem” “I’m on it” People replied enthusiastically.

   
In one or two hours, everyone gradually returned to Musian, and the small cafe at dusk was filled with all kinds of noises. The clicking sound from the keyboards sounded like the rusting steps of some small animals. Jehan was constantly moving in the room, kept turning bright red when people couldn’t recognize certain words of his writing and asked about it. Enjolras was frowning, probably a bit awkward to type out sentences about love, spring and kisses for the first time of his life. Bahorel attempted to play heavy metal as background music like he often did at home, but was quickly stopped by a hysterical Eponine. (“People have different tastes, Eponine.” “Stop it. I won’t say twice.”)

 

 

“I am finished.” Combeferre finally announced, and immediately fell back to his chair.

  
“Thank you, Combeferre.” Jehan was standing in the centre of the room timidly, “I mean, thank you all.”

  
“Don’t mention it.” Combeferre turn to Jehan and smiled, before speaking his worries, “Well, I find that you are absent-minded all day, as if there are other things distracting you.”

  
“Oh…” Jehan forced out a smile, but looked like he was about to burst into tears, “Yes… I…”

  
“Hey, what’s the matter?” Courfeyrac had also finished typing. He put his hands on Jehan’s shoulder, and asked in a low voice.

  
“It was…my instructor…not college professor, I met him in a poet society. He devoted himself to writing after diagnosed with cancer. The same thing happen to him… but much worse…” Jehan took a deep breath, as if encouraging himself to keep speaking.

  
“What happened?”

  
“They broke into his house, destroyed the files in his computer, books, manuscripts, even every small pieces of paper with scribbles right in front of him… They also announced to the curious neighbours, that he had committed atrocious moral crime, that he was a shameless criminal. And they prohibited him from writing in the future…not a word.

  
The whole room suddenly fell silent. The typing noise had stopped, all eyes were on Jehan.

  
“Last night, he cut his wrist in the bathtub.” Jehan could no longer keep his composure, and covered his face. “It was on the news this afternoon.”

  
“I saw the report, ” said Feuilly hesitantly, “it even condemned his suicide as ‘an irresponsible moral crime’”

  
Jehan didn’t reply. He allowed Courfeyrac to take him to an armchair and sat him down.

  
“We had also criticized suicide in the past.” Combeferre pointed out painfully after a short pause.

  
“But this is different…” Joly covered his heating forehead indignantly, “This is different. This men was stripped of respect, and the value of his life. This is amount to murder—”

  
“Most of those we’ve talked about are in the same situation.” said Combeferre sadly.

  
Joly stopped all of a sudden, then sat down slowly and stared at the floor.

  
“Animals ‘like us, are subject to death, but without knowing it’. Human’s deaths are meaningful, because they know the meaning of death when it happens.” After a long silence, Enjolras opened his mouth for the first time since the start.

   
“I thought you were firmly against suicide.” Combeferre was surprised, “I thought you would share the views of those people, and talk about one's responsibility to the society. ”

  
The setting sun glowed from the ground window glass, giving an illusion of warmth. Half of Enjolras’ face was bathed in the soft light. He quietly closed the notebook that had finished its mission, and looked at everybody in the room one by one. His golden eyelashes flapped gravely under the sunlight.

  
“I am against suicide when it is not considered through, and that person doesn’t understand the meaning of it. While this is different. This is… a choice, the only choice that is entirely yours, when all other choices are taken from you.” Enjolras lowered his weary eyelids, and concluded heavily.

  
“This is to say, there is no way out other than death—just like the cause you are on? But you choose to count death as one solution.” An unsteady voice came from the corner—Grantaire, who had always been silent today, had woke up from his drunken daydreams and was staggering towards Enjolras.”

  
“We are deciding to die.”

  
“Yes, but you want a revolution. You are starting a revolution! The revolution is a bloody surgery. You think you are the surgeon who holds the scalpel, but in fact, you are a clamp of mutated organs, determined to kill another clamp of stinky lymph. But who knows if the three doctors at fate’s consultation will decide to excise you as well. Or, do you think your bodies will at least be thankful? No, they will hate you for causing terrible pain. “Oh Lord, I just want some peaceful days.” they cried. But they can’t do anything but bear it, and in their heart curse you, and the fate. And on the day of the banquet, scarlet grape wine will flow everywhere, everywhere. All the green-head flies will rub their front legs and laugh, bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz——”

  
“You are drunk.” Enjolras could no longer bear this and interrupted. Grantaire knew that he dropped the honorifics not because of intimacy.

   
“You are right! I am drunk, because there is only one thing to believe in this world: My glass is filled with wine. You have your ideals, and I? I have my good wine. But, let’s take a thousand steps back, what will happen if you are successful? You, Enjolras, will become the old man giving New Year speech in the television. You will become Napoleon and Saint-Just, you will be the target of the next revolution, the next King beheaded. And the world operates as usual, France operates as usual and Paris operates as usual. Nothing will ever change. People will cheat, harm, and kill each other for trivial matters or the carrot hanging in front of their heads. They will become Cain, become the deranged burglars on the spider net. Every day, innocent people still suffer and die miserably. “Oh Lord, I just want a peaceful life.” They cry. For this is human beings, this is politics, this is what you wish to die for. No, Enjolras, the world doesn’t deserve you. This ugly filthy rotten stinky world doesn’t deserve any of yours, Themis’ drape—not an inch! You deserve much better. You deserve honey, milk, nectar, praise and pious worship, you—”

  
“Please, get out of here.” Enjolras spoke furiously.

  
Grantaire shut his mouth, and walked out with his bottles and the smell of alcohol around him.

  
The next morning, under the surprised looks of the crowd, Grantaire entered Musian like nothing had happened.

  
“Yesterday was a bit awkward.” Only Courfeyrac commented with a shrug.

  
“He is a beautiful statue.” Grantaire shrugged back.

 

 

TBC.

 


	6. 5

＊＊＊

 

5

 

A few days after the holiday, Feuilly sent back good news: The printing was done overnight, four hundred copies, and he specially brought back a sample.

 

“Each member should have one.” Bahorel suggested.

 

“Then half of them will become inside materials.” Bossuet gave a nod to the crowd, many of them were stretching their necks to have a look at the pamphlet. “We are having only part of the representatives here, more are joining us each day.”

 

“That’s a good thing. But like Enjolras said, better proceed with caution.The grey police is on the move much more frequently these days.” Combeferre gently waved the pamphlet a few times in the air, before putting it back to the table.

 

“Yes, our neighbour was searched late last night. Jehan was terrified.”  Courfeyrac teased.

 

Jehan protested with a red face: “No, that was—”

 

The next moment, Musian’s door was pushed open. People in the café instinctively sensed danger,  and many of them rose up their head.

 

Three tall man were standing up-right in the wide-open doorway. The evening wind was blowing into Musian without any barriers, and the chilliness was causing people’s hair to stand.

 

Light grey shirts, dark grey ties, guns in their waist.

 

The whole room was deadly silent. Everyone stayed on their seat motionless, even Eponine was rigid near the kitchen door.

 

The leader of the three grey police had a grim expression. He first scanned over the crowd with narrowed eyes, then stood at attention with a loud stomp and shouted loudly:

 

“Citizens, we have received report that there are criminal activities violating the Morality Act going on. Special operation group, First Class Inspector, Javert, is here for investigation."”

 

“Mr. Inspector, may I ask what criminal activities are we accused of?” Enjolras was the first to stand up. He spoke in an business-like manner, while taking a step forward to block the sample collection from Javert’s view.

 

“We are here to find out, citizen.” Inspector Javert squinted again, and observed Enjolras very closely, “You are the chief?”

 

“I don’t know that you have to be part of an organization in order to drink coffee.” Courfeyrac joked casually on his seat. “This is a café, sir, not some Paris Association of Coffee Drinking.”

 

“So—” The look on Inspector Javert became even more unfriendly. He ignored Courfeyrac, took out a recorder from his coat, and continued to question Enjolras after pressing the bottom, “—You are here just for coffee?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What is your name?”

 

“Enjolras.”

 

“Who is sharing your table?”

 

“My friend.”

 

“What friend?”

 

“Combeferre, I grow up with him.” Combeferre answered for himself.

 

“Have you ever violated the Morality Act?”

 

“No. I’ve always let a temperate life.” answered Enjolras with a straight face.

 

“I’ll be happy to prove that. He lives like a saint.” said Combeferre.

 

“Have you noticed any activities against the Morality Act around you? ”

 

“I don’t know, not paying attention, don’t think so.”

 

Inspector Javert’s face was getting darker with every question. When finally putting the recorder away, he seemed on the brink of an outburst.

 

“I’m afraid this cannot satisfy me, Citizen Enjolras.” Inspector Javert shook his coat in an imposing manner, before speaking aggressively, “We must be responsible to the report of the people, and thoroughly investigate this matter.”

 

Inspector Javert took a step forward, as if determined to search this place. While everyone had realized that, if he took three or four steps further, he would be able to see the poem pamphlet over Enjolras’ shoulder.

 

One Step.

 

Two Steps.

 

Three—

 

A figure suddenly stood up, and faltered towards the inspectors. He moved past Enjolras, and ran into Inspector Javert directly. Before Javert had time to react, Grantaire rolled his eyes and forced out an apology:

 

“I’m sorry buddy.”

 

Then heroically threw up all over Javert.

 

In that endless second, Musian was utterly silent except the sound of vomiting from Grantaire’s throad. Fortunately, he was spewing with surprising precision, that none the vomit splashed onto Enjolras, who was standing right beside.

 

“Ho—” Grantaire was finally finished. He stood up straight and smiled apologetically to Inspector Javert.

 

“You…you!” Javert was trembling with rage. His brand new tie, ironed shirt and trousers were all covered by the mixture of alcohol and acid from Grantaire’s stomach. “You are the one that was reported! Alcoholism! That is a moral crime, criminal! ”

 

“Take him!” Javert roared to the other two officers, before storming out of the door, “NOW!”

 

“Wait—” Courfeyrac hurried from his seat to stop them, but spotted the face of Grantaire, who was now grabbed by two investigators trying their vest to avoid the vomit. He quickly eyed the ABCs,  who were also standing up, to stop them from acting rashly. The door closed with a bang, and peace returned to Musian again. Only that pool of stinky vomit proved what had just happened.

 

“This is… insane.” Enjolras finally said with knitted brows.

 

“No,” explained Courfeyrac, “He winked at me before being dragged out—he did it on purpose.”

 

“Grantaire?” asked Enjolras.

 

“Grand R saved us.” Combeferre concluded calmly.

 

“This is insane.” Enjolras was frowning again, but this time he believed it.

  

 

 

“Where are you going?” Grantaire rose up from the table abruptly at the noise. Hangover had left him with headache and a blurred sight.

 

“Follow me.” Standing in front of him, Enjolras didn’t answer the question, but simply nodded to him. Grantaire shook his head before standing up, and followed Enjolras out of Musian. However, what he saw outside the door was not Paris—

 

But a forest.

 

Not waiting for Grantaire, who was stunned by the sight, Enjolras walked into the forest on his own. Grantaire was quick to follow, while glancing around curiously. The forest was boundless. The humus under his feet was soft and humid, with the smell of deadwood. Over his head, thick branches gradually covered the sky, and in a short time, the sun was no longer visible. The forest was getting darker every minute, while Enjolras’ figure was glowing with light, like a beacon in the evening .

 

“Why are your shining?” asked Grantaire.

 

“That is just your mind.” Enjolras answered calmly without turning back.

 

“If you say so.”

  

At last, Enjolras stopped under a tree, a young one, barely a man’s height. Pure white flowers were blossoming silently on the dark brown boughs, giving out a soothing fragrance. Enjolras plucked a flower from the lower branches, and gently cupped it in his hand.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I am freeing them.”

 

“Free?”

 

“Free.” Enjolras repeated patiently, then slowly reopened his palms.  

 

That white flower flapped its wings and flew away.

 

“Wha—?” Grantaire’s month dropped open. He gaped at the white flower as it disappeared from his vision.

 

“Now it is free.” Enjolras turned back, and gazed attentively into Grantaire’s eyes. Grantaire was now certain that light was radiating from him. Enjolras alone had almost illuminated the entire dark forest. His blonde hair was a burning flame, his face a fiery sun. His eyes were the shining blue sword that split the night.

 

The bells of Judgement came from afar—

 

 

 

The baton was again slamming the door like thunder.

 

“Citizen Grantaire! Get out!”

  

Grantaire rolled over on the plank and fell to the ground. Blood rushed to his head, and his temple throbbed in a rhythm like ocean tide. That was because he “bumped onto the table corner four times due to his own negligence”. He rose up slowly from the damp cement floor, and tried to put his weight onto his shaky legs without a success. That was caused by too much time under the “educational current”. He coughed uncontrollably on the floor, with lungs and gullet both protesting in pain, and finally spitted out a pool of water. That was the tap water forced into his throat to “sober him up”.

 

The one outside had run out of patience, with a wave of his hand, two man entered the room to drag Grantaire out. Grantaire was pulled all the way through the dark hallway like a bag of dough. He was sure that its floor was ceramic now. The light bulb was flickering. Peeling walls. Water was running down from his forehead, into his mouth. Sweat. That was blood. He was bleeding again? He was Injured? Grantaire couldn’t remember.

 

“…Acquit… no evidence…working overtime to midnight……” He heard a grey police complaining about something.

 

His knees bumped heavily on the mental threshold, but the pain was no longer a problem. The air had changed. His support suddenly disappeared and the earth embraced him in slow motion.

 

 

TBC.

 


	7. 6

 

＊＊＊

 

6

 

Grantaire opened his eyes.

 

Enjolras face was right above. He was looking down at him. Numerous rays of light came from all directions, causing his eyes to sting.

 

“Seems like I am still dreaming.” Grantaire close his eye again wearily.

 

“You are awake.” Enjolras replied with great relief.

 

“Excellent. I can feel the headache coming back again.” Grantaire mumbled, trying to get up, “Where am I?”

 

“The hospital. We find you outside the detention house of grey police and carried you here,” Enjolras stopped him from rising, “You need rest. You are seriously injured.”

 

“No, I must be still dreaming.” Grantaire muttered and lay back to the pillow obediently, before noticing the all-white decoration and the drip in his arm, “Enjolras himself comes to visit me in the hospital—are you sure you are the Enjolras I know?”

 

“Pretty sure.” Enjolras answered with a serious look.

 

“That is my honour indeed. ”Grantaire saluted him weakly, “Just in case, I need to make it clear, I didn’t tell them anything—there is some vague courage in me.”

 

 

“I believe you.” said Enjolras, “But that is not what I come for.”

 

“Oh?” Grantaire’s heart missed a beat.

 

“We have to thank you—I have to thank you.” Enjolras said earnestly. “For saving us.”

 

“It’s not a big deal. I was just……improvising.”

 

“I’ve been thinking, maybe I was wrong about you in some ways.”

 

The room fell silent. Grantaire stared at the yellow stains on the ceiling for quite a while, before opening his mouth again.

 

“No, you weren’t, Enjolras.”

 

“I know you’ve despised me since the start, though it was hidden under courtesy.”

 

“And everything you hold about me is true. I am such a hopeless fellow.”

 

“I don’t care about the revolution.”

 

“I did all these just for a chance to talk to you.”

 

“I don’t deserve your gratitude.”

 

“I am sorry.”

 

Enjolras listened to Grantaire’s broken speech quietly. When he was finally finished, they were surrounded by utter silence. Grantaire didn’t have the courage to meet Enjolras’ eyes. At last, he heard Enjolras speaking calmly:

 

“I think it’s the first time that you talk to me sober.”

 

“That’s true.” Grantaire let out a few dry laughter, thanking Enjolras in his heart for saving the conversation.

 

“You were right. I do contempt you.”Enjolras continued, “because you are alcoholic and indolent, because you don’t believe in anything.”

 

“I believe in you.” Grantaire interrupted without thinking.

 

“Please, let me finish.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“You cannot be saved, because you yourself is unwilling to be saved.”

 

“……”

 

“……”

 

“But I don’t believe that is your destiny.” said Enjolras heavily. He stood up from the chair beside the bed, rang the bell to call the nurse, and left the room with his coat in hand.

 

Grantaire stared at the closed door for a while, and suddenly realized that Enjolras was seeing him as the epitome of the public who refuse to wake up.

 

“He is indeed a marble god just walking down the podium.” Grantaire talked to himself loudly. Bitterness was spreading in his chest.

 

Within a few days, Grantaire reappeared in Musian with a bandage on his head, and was drinking profusely again.

 

“What does the doctor say, grand R?”asked Joly.

 

“Screw the doctor!” replied Grantaire with a roguish grin. In Bahorel’s cheerful applause, he finished a tin of beer with one breath as celebration.

 

Enjolras said nothing. He didn’t even look towards this direction, as if the conversation in the hospital had never taken place. Grantaire also continued to fool around as usual, talking nonsense while drunk, driven out of Musian by a furious Enjolras now and then. And he always returned to the café the next day like nothing had happened.

 

 

 

While the situation was deteriorating everyday. The grey police patrolled the streets, which made the contact work between ABC’s branches increasingly difficult. But there was also a bright side. Those willing to join them at this time were often the most reliable friends. They were even gaining some reputation among the ordinary folks.

 

In March, the government issue an order to “reconstruct Paris comprehensively.” While the so-called reconstruction, meant to strip it of streets and alleys ideal for building barricades, indecent old buildings where moral criminals tend to hide, and any place that didn’t reflect “high moral values”. In other words, it aimed to tear Paris down, and build a perfectly ordered new city sprayed by disinfectant on the ruin of the old city.

 

 

The order provoked strong resistance all over Paris and the whole country. The government underestimated French, especially Parisian’s love for this city. In fact, even the most diehard moral defenders was flinching at the idea in private. (I understand the importance of city planning, but…this is Paris! Said random passing citizen to the reporter.) ABC’s campaigning was effective. After six months, the government had only managed to pulldown one or two old architectures with great difficulty, and had to give up the plan to destroy Paris. A more harmless new plan was announced: To build a “civil and orderly” new city outside of Paris.

 

“A new Paris!” Courfeyrac scorned loud when first hearing the news, “No. It is impossible to build another Paris. You can build Rome, build London, build New York beside her. But Paris is always Paris.”

 

Despite there were a thousand Courfeyracs with holding same opinion in Paris, the new city was still finished. The government was determined to mobilize all resources and manpower in France, and just three and a half years later, a brand new city that surprised the entire world emerged from the old and shabby skirt of Paris. There was no longer any sinful and filthy little pubs, nor any corner not covered by security cameras. After everything was completed, the government asked its people to move to this bright city of ideals.

 

"Move, and receive abundant subsidies and preferential treatment; Stay, and you won’t even receive your pension.” All official e-mails didn’t speak it aloud, but the hidden message was clear enough. In the end, more than half of the citizens let out a long sigh and moved their family to the new district, while the rest of them stayed, including ABC and some scattered revolutionary groups.

 

Later, the government announced new policies. The old and new city was to be treated differently. High walls were built to separate the two districts, leaving only one passage. The flow of people and goods were strictly limited by body checks and taxes. They cut the water supply in the old city, and put quota on electricity and gas. Sometimes, when people were looking at the flickering candles in their room after sunset, they started to doubt if they had returned to the Middle Ages in just one night.

 

On Easter night of the following year, a small group of high-profile revolutionaries was purged by the grey police during an overnight raid. Those who resisted were shot at the doorsteps of their home, and those surrendered were given lethal injections secretly in prison. No trial, no investigations, and zero information made to the public. This incident greatly shocked the old city, and everybody felt threatened. They started to realize that reasoning with the other side was no longer a viable option. The ABC decided to bring together the rest of the revolutionary forces and start militarization. Soon, with the help of the incredibly resourceful Courfeyrac, Feuilly and other members who had connections within and outside of the border, they had acquired enough ammunition to defend themselves against the rampant grey police squats from the walls of the new district.

 

 

TBC. 

 


	8. 7

＊＊＊

 

**7**

 

When the spring passes and summer came, ABC defeated the grey police in a raid for the first time, in addition to regaining control of the waterworks and the main road. Grantaire learned the news after he was shaken from his drunken dreams near the window on the second floor of Corinth.

 

“Grand R! Wake up! We won!” Joly grabbed Grantaire, who was napping dizzily, and shook him back and forward with great excitement. 

 

“…What?”

 

“We won! The defence team is heading back to this block. Enjolras sends a message that he needs more men to help.

 

“This ‘man’ must be you. Enjolras won’t think of me. Besides, I’m still asleep.” Grantaire gruntled, trying to bury his head back to his arms.

 

“No I can’t go. It is raining outside, and I don’t have an umbrella.” Joly gave an irrefutable reason.

 

“So?” Grantaire unwillingly rose his head and looked out. A tiny drop of chilly rain fell on his nose, and the smell of the earth made his nostrils to tickle.

 

“You know me, grand R.” Joly said firmly, “I’m willing to start a revolt and lose my head, but not catching a cold after going out in the rain.”

 

“……”

 

“I’ll buy you three drinks. ”

  

“Deal.” Grantaire inhaled sharply, before standing up and running downstairs.

 

On the way, heavy raindrops kept beating on Grantaire’s head, sinking into his unkempt curls, which made Grantaire’s head ever more uncomfortable with the hangover. Fortunately, he didn’t have to run far before finding the returning team at a crossroad behind a barricade made by sandbags, furnitures and mattresses. However, the atmosphere over the crowd was far from cheerful.  In the rain, they formed a circle with grave looks on their faces. Even those who had been injured were supported by friends after some simple treatment, and looked towards the centre without a word.

 

Grantaire was bewildered for a moment, before suddenly seized by an ominous feeling. His temple was throbbing terribly as the rain continued to pour onto his head. He cried “make way, make way” in panic, and squeezed into the crowd. 

 

Thank God, he spotted Enjolras’s blond head in an instant. But before he could let out a sigh of relief, Enjolras’ voice came into his ears. It was calm and ruthless.

 

“Collect your thoughts, pray or think. You have one minute.”

 

The one kneeling before Enjolras was speaking incoherently. Curses were mixed with wretched begging: “Mercy!”

 

Enjolras was unmoved. His eyes stays on his watch, emotionless. His face was pale, the lowered eyelids and his inviolable profile render him the look of a Greek statue, bordering between rage and serenity.

 

Within a spitting second, Grantaire realized what was about to happen. His mouth was suddenly dry, and his body was burning despite being soaked by the chilly rain. He wasn’t even aware that he was trembling almost as hard as the prisoner on the ground. Words had failed him at this moment.

 

“They may excuse themselves, and cast the blame on the circumstances amid which they live; but they are absurd, inexcusable…” He thought he heard someone behind him reciting Dostoevsky in a low voice, like the most pious prayer in the church, or the most powerless defendant at court, “There may be truth in the lament, but a cunning rogue who knows how to take care of himself never fails to blame the circumstances around him when he wishes to cover his weakness, and his faults to be forgiven…”

 

After a century, or half a second, the minute was over.

 

Enjolras lowered his wrist and grabbed the prisoner’s hair. The man was crying in vain while Enjolras pressed the muzzle to the back of his head with a steady hand—Grantaire didn’t close his eyes.

 

A loud crack.

 

The man fell like a heavy sack in the middle of the street, face down in the pool of his own blood. His lifeless limbs were still twitching. For a moment, Grantaire found the world around him spinning madly as if his brain had also been pieced by a bullet. The only thing in his blur and distorted vision was Enjolras. Enjolras’ gun barrel was lowered and wet. The heat from Enjolras’ body was vaporizing visibly amid the chilly air. Enjolras rose his head, his blue eyes pieced the dreary curtain of rain. Glorious, sacred, and merciless. Now the sinners are facing judgement. You are guilty. Guilty. You are condemned to death. It is doomsday.

 

At this moment, Grantaire finally realized that it was the first time he saw an execution. The first time he saw Enjolras killing another man.

 

“Citizens, what that man did was appalling, and what I have done is horrible—”

 

Grantaire was vaguely aware that Enjolras was speaking something, but he could understood none of it. He just wanted to close his eyes, or burst into hysterical laugher.

 

“—and you will soon see what I have sentenced myself.—”

  

“—Death, I use you, but I hate you—”

 

“—there shall be neither ferocious ignorance nor blood-shedding sentences. As devil shall no long exist, neither does angels. ”

 

“—In the future, no one shall slay his fellow—“

 

“—We are giving our lives so that future may come sooner—”

 

Grantaire didn’t move until a while after Enjolras had finished his speech. When he finally noticed that the crowd was moving again, other members of ABC had already started to clean the scene. Bossuet, who was standing next to Grantaire, had noticed him and hastily explained: “That was a mob who sneaked into our team. He shot an old man who wouldn’t open the door for him. 

 

“Oh.” Grantaire nodded mechanically, letting Bossuet to drag him towards another direction.

 

“Come and help me. We need to take care of that old man’s body.”

 

But just as they reached the building not far from the barricade, Bossuet was called away unexpectedly by a messager. He shouted towards Grantaire before running away with him:

 

“Fourth floor!”

 

Grantaire looked up in the rain, and spotted a grey head partly sticking out of a window on that floor. He faltered for a while, before turning to the stairs. As soon as he entered the apartment with a smashed door, blood, the same smell that shrouded the street a moment ago, again filled Grantaire’s nostrils, and everything in his stomach suddenly threatens to flow out of his throat. He tried his best to suppress the nausea, before walking towards the old man hanging on the edge of the window. He was careful not to look at his face when moving the body to the ground.

 

The old man’s soft body brushed over his arm.

 

Grantaire’s hair was standing, a weird taste rose from the back of his tongue, and his head was aching as if about to explode. The wine he drank yesterday mixed with gastric juice was boiling inside him. He was covered with cold sweat. Through a darkened vision, he fumbled towards the door with rigid limbs, trying to get some fresh air outside.

 

—He bumped into someone just about to enter the room, who grabbed his wrist firmly to steady him. Grantaire was almost leaning against that person. He felt so weak that his legs might fail again at any time.

 

“Thanks, bro.”Grantaire curled his back and groaned painfully.

 

“I remember I’ve sent for Bossuet.” A calm voice came from above.

 

Blood in Grantaire’s head was frozen. He rose his head, the one above him lowered his eyes, looking at him dispassionately as if pitying a sinner. The very same look as the one at the crossroad.

 

That was Enjolras. Enjolras was holding his wrist. He was leaning on Enjolras’ body.

 

His vision was spinning madly, twisting like countless works of Dali.

 

Enjolras’ dripping wet hair, Enjolras’ tightly closed lips, Enjolras’ blue iris, Enjolras’ motionless golden eyelashes, Enjolras’ regular rhythm of breath, the shape of Enjolras’ shoulder blade under the thin fabric, the warmth radiating from the artery on Enjolras’ neck, Enjolras’ arm holding him, Enjolras’ fingers pressed on Grantaire’s frantic pulse—

 

The world exploded.

 

Grantaire staggered into the bathroom, and threw up kneeling in front of the toilet.

  

When he finally came out again with the support of the bathroom door, Grantaire was embarrassed to find that Enjolras was still standing in the room, alone. While the body on the ground was now covered by a white sheet.

 

“Hey.” Grantaire wiped his mouth with the sleeve and mumbled a greeting. Then the important issue came back to him. “Well, Bossuet came with me…I mean, he was called away, he told me to go to the fourth floor.”

 

“I see.” said Enjolras.

 

“Oh.”

 

“…...”

 

“…...”

 

“You saw the execution of La Cabuc.”

 

“A small part.”

 

“You were vomiting.”

 

“Because of hangover.”

 

“You know, you don’t have to stay at the barricade.”

 

“I want to.” Grantaire let himself fall into the sofa, and crossed his arms as a sign of resolution.

 

“While drunk?”

 

“While drunk.” answered Grantaire automatically. He quickly added when noticing Enjolras knitted brows: “Let me stay. I’ll do my best not to disgrace your glorious barricade.”

 

“That is weird.” said Enjolras, “You do not believe in the revolution, yet you are willing to stay and die for it.”

 

“Aha, now you admit that your revolution will only lead to death.” Grantaire slapped the cushion and spoke loudly, “and I believe in you.”

 

“Don’t distort my words.” Enjolras said quickly as if he didn’t hear the last sentence.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Since you are already here, do me a favor.” 

 

“I’m at your disposal, even polishing your shoes.” Grantaire promised with a hand on his chest. But he had little hope, thinking that Enjolras would surely drive him away and tell him not to become a burden. He glanced at Enjolras’ face nervously.

 

“So, you want an errand, and we happen to need a sentinel.” The answer was unexpected. Enjolras calmly pointed to a row of trees at a distance outside the window. "The experimental field inside the university’s research centre has been deserted and that terrain is open. It will be a weak spot when the street battle begins. There may be spare people to shift with you, but don’t have too much hope.”

 

“Oh.” Grantaire looked along Enjolras’ finger without focusing. “I mean, I will do it.”

 

“Very well.”

 

“Will you be disappointed?”

 

“You haven’t even started.”

 

“Ah, yes.”

 

“Good.”

 

“There’s another thing.”

 

“What?”

 

“From now on, you can call me the Watcher in the Wheat.”

 

“Bye.”

 

“Oh, goodbye.”

 

 

TBC.

 


	9. 8

 

＊＊＊

 

8

 

In order to watch the wheat field, Grantaire bought a trunk from a second-hand businessman, packed all his belongings into it, and deleted the number of his landlord, who had already moved into the new district. Then, as if going on a road trip, he drove the truck through half of the city into the deserted campus. When passing a half blasted building which used to be a club, Grantaire spotted a lonely piano in the debris. Maybe they didn’t have time to move such a heavy instrument durning the emergency evacuation. Grantaire stopped the truck at roadside and looked at it for a while, but he didn’t get off to give it a touch.

 

At last, Grantaire parked his trunk next to some rough hand-made wooden fences next to the experimental field. He jumped out of the driver’s room and slammed the door with a bang. From the field beside him, a group of wet sparrows shoot into the sky while cursing loudly. The wheats, which received little care after being sown last September, are growing surprisingly well. Somebody was apparently qualified for a honour degree. The wheatears had already turned gold, sending a notable aroma to the air. Some wild grass were growing between them. Grantaire wiped his face with rainwater, and thought about Enjolras. It prompted him to throw that small bag of weed (what the second-hand businessman gave to him as change) into a puddle, before grinding them into the mud under a sign saying “Watch Your Own Animals” with the bottom of his shoes. He then returned to the trunk, took out a folding chair and sat down. He was not sure how to be a sentinel, but he guessed what he could do at the moment was to settle down and stare at the field.

 

During the night, Grantaire dreamt of many people hurt and dead in the battle, including Jehan, who was captured and shot in the head. Following that, he was startled awake by gunfires from the other side of the city. He lied completely still on his camp bed for a few minutes, staring into the darkness, regretting not drinking a bottle of wine before going to bed. The gunshots were frightening and painful as if they had penetrated his own heart. The rain had stopped, but it seemed that the night woven by darkness would never pass. Dead people were crying to his ear between wake and dream. He felt he was about to be crushed by something intangible and die before the dawn. He counted the endless row of sheep in silence, and finally fell asleep when the day broke.

 

“Hey, wake up.” Somebody were slapping his face with a paper bag.

 

 “…What?” Grantaire complained, lifting his eyelids with extreme unwillingness. It was Courfeyrac.

 

“Oh, you are finally awake. What a beautiful morning, and you are slumbering it away.” said Courfeyrac.

 

“Damn it, I was just asleep.”

 

“Lucky for you. You had a bed when my hair was scorched by bullets in the bunker last night.”

 

“…Sorry. Something happened last night, I think? I heard gunfire from a distant. Grantaire crawled up, and sat on the bed. 

 

Yes, the grey police launched a surprise attack. We fought for the whole night, and lost a few people, but they were driven back into the walls eventually.

 

“Is Jehan all right?”

 

“Jehan. Almost captured by a grey police, but I knocked that bastard off with my gunstock. Why? ”

 

“Nothing…A strange dream.” Grantaire mumbled.

 

“Well, we are still busy dealing with the aftermath. Eponine made some sandwiches, they asked me to bring one for you, and to see if your place is still save. ”

 

“Thanks… I mean, I’m sorry that I wasn’t there last night.” Grantaire scratched his head, and took the bag from Courfeyrac a bit uneasily. He took out the sandwiches and devoured it. Since the stupor of alcohol was cleared from him yesterday, he hadn’t had any food.

 

“You were doing your job. They didn’t slipped under your nose, why apologize for it?” Courfeyrac shrugged casually. 

 

“It was just… that dream, it made me worry that you people would die right beside me. I am glad that you are not here to ask me to wash your blood-stained banner.”

 

“Come on. A sentimental Grantaire? I’d rather have the cynical and garrulous one back.” Courfeyrac laughed out. “And I wonder why you haven’t asked about Enjolras. I thought you were staying with us for his sake. ”

 

“I will never say ‘for his sake’”, Grantaire let out a sigh and finished the last bite of his sandwich, before looking straight at Courfeyrac’s eyes, “Selfish Grantaire is doing this just for himself.”

 

“You have the final word.” Seeing the serious attitude, Courfeyrac stopped teasing him. “But the way, just to cheer you up, Apollo is one of them who asked me to bring you some food.”

 

“How do you know I call him…well, never mind. ”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing. That is probably the best news in this month.” Grantaire sighed again, licking his fingertips, which were sticky from the maple syrup in the sandwich. “Thank god you all made it, for the moment at least. I won’t be the last one left to recognize your bodies. I don’t want to see them lying there, rotten and stink. ”

 

“So heartless.”Courfeyrac curled his lips.

 

“Come on, I mean, they are not you. You are dead, and those are just some dead bodies pretending to be you, and dead bodies don’t have feelings.”

 

“Fine, damn it. Anyways, we will keep looking at you after we are dead, from the reflections of your phone screen, from the windows of grocery stores, from your wine glass… Yes. A-L-W-A-Y-S looking.” threatened Courfeyrac with a finger in the air.

 

“You win. I’ll go to claim the bodies, at least won’t let you rot in mass graves. ” Grantaire rose both hands to surrender.

 

“That’s comforting.”

 

“Give my thanks to Eponine.” Grantaire scrunched the paper bag into a ball, and threw it away.

 

“Will do. Don’t forget to come to the meeting at Musian tonight, old time. Enjolras emphasized specially. We will find someone to take your shift. ” Courfeyrac jumped out of the trunk.

 

“Tell that fellow to keep his hands off my bottles.” Grantaire yelled to his back.

 

“Don’t forget the meeting.”

 

Grantaire shrugged at him, before sitting back down in the folding chair. He stared at the wheat field blankly.

 

Boredom and fatigue swept over him in the first few minutes. He looked around with hesitation, before reaching for that half-empty brandy bottle and took a sip. His viscera finally smoothed out in the familiar burning sensation.

 

“Why not another?” He spoke to himself.

 

 

TBC.

 


	10. 9

 

＊＊＊

 

**9**

 

Grantaire woke up with a start when the door of his trunk was suddenly opened. It was completely dark outside. He bounced up and looked at his watch: it had already been an hour since the starting time of the meeting. He let out a painful groan in front of the bewildered new sentinel, ruffled his hair, and charged into the darkness towards Musian at full speed.

  

When he finally burst into Musian’s door out if breath, Grantaire was surprised to find that the café was only dimly lit by candles, while about two hundred people were packed into the small room. Some heads were even thrusting out from between the railings of the second floor. Right in the middle of the hall, the core members of ABC were sitting silently around Enjolras to listen to his speech.

 

“Hey.” Grantaire managed an awkward smile.

 

Enjolras glanced him coldly, before continuing to the crowd.

 

“But for the moment, our chief priority—”

 

He was interrupted again by the second person rushing into the doorway.

 

“They’ve sent out the army.” Bossuet was panting, then collapsed onto the sofa near the door. Grantaire seized the chance to sneak to the back corner amid the confusion.

 

“Is the news reliable.” asked Combeferre after a tense silence.

 

“Yes, they have already surrounded the old city, and that’s why our water, electricity, gas, and transportations are all cut off.” Bossuet wiped the sweat from his bold forehead.

 

“We might be able to take up with the grey police, but the army?” Joly was looking between Bossuet and the crowd back and forth. “We can barely give everyone a gun with limited ammunition. Not to mention supplies, we don't even have much drinking water. While the other side has airplanes and cannons. How can we fight them?"

 

“We knew it from the start that one day we might have to to face the army.” Combeferre pointed out.

 

“But not under the current situation, we are at a very disadvantageous position.” said Courfeyrac, “More than seventy percent of the people are in their hands, their eyes and ears covered. I bet that most of those in New Paris doesn’t even know our existence, let alone the world.”

 

“Then we will do our best to fight them.” Bahorel said loudly, knocking at the table. “In the maze of streets and alleys of Paris, a large army might be no more useful than a handful of guerrillas familiar with the area."

 

“That is suicide.” Combeferre added quickly as Bahorel seemed to have more words to say, “Death is not the problem here. The problem is it is exactly what they want. Why do you think that the army is only surrounding the city when it can easily crush us in a short time.”

 

“They want to wait until we run out of supply, and collapse of ourselves, or drive us to desperation and run into the power grids while they sit comfortably in the sofas and watch TV.

 

“No, it is worse than that. Don’t forget there are civilians trapped with us.” said Combeferre heavily, “We are turned into mobs who kidnap innocent people to die for their own political pursuit. ”

 

Silence fell upon the café again.

 

“We must not let that happen.” said Enjolras.

 

People rose their head to look at him.

  

“The world often says, that the most prominent characteristic of France is its romanticism. While in my opinion, we have a greater nature—Freedom. Throughout history, we have beheaded the king, we have toppled syndicates that controlled the politics one by one. We have spent centuries to build up the republic, for what? Freedom. There are no other people who love freedom more than the people of France, and no people hate it more when lose their freedom. Nobody can ever take it away from Marianna. In this respect, I have faith in our people. 

 

Enjolras was inspecting the group slowly under the dim light of the candles.

 

“Think about our aim when first establishing this society—to the people whose eyes are covered, we will lift the blindfold, tell them what is happening here. This is our beginning, and it should also be our end.”

 

Some people nodded quietly. Enjolras paused for a moment, and continued:

“The nineteenth century is grand, what we inherited from sages and martyrs—freedom, equality, and democracy, never die, never collapse, and are still shining in front of our path this day. They provide guidance not only for France, but for the entire humanity. The revolution is consisted of three colors: Gold, for ideals; red, for passion and blood, which is the yearning to advance no matter the cost; and black, for ruthless death. Yes, that third shade was never absent in any revolution.

 

Enjolras took a light breath. When he spoke again, the look on his face was more tender.

 

“Do you picture yourselves in the future. All nations are like brothers and sisters, justice prevail, and science and truth become the only guide to the society. Thinkers are free, religions are fully equal. All have jobs, all love peace. There is no more bloodshed, no more war, no more cries of suffering.”

 

“Some who think themselves smart will say I am being unrealistic, too idealistic, gilding and romanticizing the cause that I strive for.”

 

“But I will answer that, progression and future are both sprang from bright ideals, and they will return to the same bright end inevitably. The reason why we are standing up, holding our guns and our lives in hand is to protect the truth, and the inalienable rights of every men.

 

“Ideals are often fatal.”

“But I will not close my eyes and pretend everything is all right. Somebody needs to be the first one to stand up, and rip off the curtain of darkness.”

 

Enjolras examined the crowd with a fearless gaze, while rising a tightly clenched fist over his head, and dropped his words one by one:

 

“Yes, I-Will-Not-Close-My-Eyes.”

 

In the silence, Courfeyrac stood up and said:

“We will be with you.”

 

 Combeferre nodded approvingly, and rose from the seat as well. He looked at all his friends with a smile:

”Let the smart ones who survive because of us mock as they want, we will be the first fools to stand up.”

 

The next moment, the whole room were standing up one by one.

 

“I thank you all.” Enjolras looked around, and nodded with gravity. When he spoke again, it was in a low voice.

 

“Actually I have a plan.Yesterday, I went to search the old town hall, and with some help of its former employees, we discovered the former government had left an independent power and network transceiver system in the basement. It was intended for emergency situations, and due to some complicated confidentiality agreement, the new government doesn’t know about it. There is only one problem: the energy reserve in the system can only last for an hour."

 

“That is enough. With it, we can broadcast ourselves to the world.” Combeferre took off and wiped his glasses excitedly, before putting them back on.

 

“But it’s not enough to post videos online, they will quickly delete it.”

 

“Then, we all leave the job to the hackers in our group.” Courfeyrac pointed to the crowd. Few hands was up.

 

“We can replace the evening news in the new city with our own material for half an hour. The signal will be synchronized to the radio system, so people will also be able to listen to it. We can send the video to major media companies all over the world too. I believe they have some interest in what the French government is trying to hide.” A young man said loudly, voice shaking with excitement as his skill was finally in use.

 

“But this plan has serious consequences.” Enjolras eyed at the excited crowd heavily, “I can almost be sure, that the moment we start our speech, the army will be on the move, to retaliate, or try to shut our voice. Our hope for victory is close to zero.”

 

“In other words, our end will be here.”

 

Enjolras threw back his hair and said: “I have no right to ask you to die. Those who wish to quit, please rise your hand. ”

 

Nobody moved.

 

“I beg you to think twice.” Enjolras rose his voice.

 

“We are not afraid.” Somebody in the crowd shouted.

 

“Think about your parents, your partners, your friends.” Combeferre joined Enjolras. “I appreciate your passion, but think about those who love you, and don’t be selfish.”

 

People lowered their heads quietly.

 

Grantaire was hiding himself in the corner, his eyes fixed on the vacuum cup he was using as a wine glass. He shook it gently, watching the golden liquid inside to swirl along the brink, like the last tinge of afterglow in the dark room.

 

He thought about the argument he had with Enjolras about death that evening, in this very same room. And he knew that Combeferre himself was not without parents.

 

At last, under Enjolras’ order and Combeferre’s encouragement, several people rose their hands shakily when they asked for the third time. Others patted on their shoulders, shook hands with them and embrace them. They were sincerely happy see these people leaving the grave.

 

After Musian’s door were opened, and closed again, everyone left was dauntless soldiers. Under the candle light, fierce flames were burning in their eyes, their face hardened with resolution.

 

“We will wake up the French people.” Courfeyrac smiled at Enjolras, “Their time to pretend sleep is over.”

 

 

TBC. 

 


	11. 10

＊＊＊

 

**10**

 

After the meeting, people swarmed out of Musian with their jobs distributed, some were to occupy the government, some form defensive squads, and some evacuate the civilians to take refuge in the underground nuclear shelters. Grantaire tried to approach Enjolras through the crowd, but kept being pushed further away. Fortunately, Enjolras had also finished his preparation, and walked towards the door following the others.

 

“Enjolras!” exclaimed Grantaire. Enjolras turned towards his direction at the call.“What about me?”

 

“You?” Enjolras just looked at him briefly without any intention to stop, “Go home with your bottles. This is not your place.”

 

Grantaire felt a barrow of cold water had just been poured over his head. He almost fell over when the person behind ran into him. When he looked up again, Enjolras had already disappeared in the bustling crowd.

 

Grantaire sunk into a chair nearby. Musian was now completely empty—even Eponine had joined their action. After a while, the candle ran out, the flame shrunk quickly before turning into a thin string of smoke. 

 

He sat quietly in the darkness for another fifteen minutes or so, before fumbled his way behind the counter. He got Eponine’s radio and a bottle of whiskey, and returned to his seat. He took a swig of the spirit and turned on the radio. Moonlight was coming in from the windows, and the soft rustles filled the empty room as he finished adjusting the frequency. He swallowed more whiskey, but it didn’t help his limbs to get warmer. He had never known that a summer night could be so chilly, like Paris, the gloomy, lifeless ruin itself was already a tomb in the underworld.

  

He suddenly regretted throwing away that bag of weed.

 

He lied on the table, taking a sip from time to time. Darkness, alcohol, together with hunger and tiredness were quick to induce sleep. A name kept hovering at the edge of his dreams.

 

How dare you. Grantaire said to himself in the dream. You are just—

 

Suddenly, the white noise from the radio faltered, before switching into the familiar opening song of the evening news. However, with in two or three seconds, it fell silent again.

 

Grantaire struggled to lift up his dazed head.

 

In the midst of dead silence, Enjolras’ calm voice came without warning:

 

“Citizens—”

 

They had succeeded. 

 

Grantaire burst into laughter. He swayed back and forth. He was out of breath, and in the end tripped himself and fell over onto the wooden floor. But he kept laughing, until his stomach started to ache. The hoarse and desperate laughing echoed through the old building, like a fading ghost recklessly haunting its residence for the last time.

 

After about twenty minutes, Enjolras finished his speech. The anchor tried her best to present other news as if nothing had happened, but her voice was trembling like the last leaf in the autumn wind.

 

Soon the news was over, the only thing left was the empty rustling noise.

 

Grantaire was still lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling and counting numbers.

 

When he got to four hundred, a buzzing noise came from outside, and was approaching very quickly. Grantaire turned to the window and looked at the sky. A bomber just swept past Musian. He watched indifferently as that plane dropped a string of something. The noise of them crushing to the ground was like a blinding white light, forcing him to shut his eyes instinctively. When opening his eyes again, Grantaire found himself lying between bricks and pieces of cement. His face was covered by dust—half of Musian’s wall was blown away.

 

He didn’t move.

 

More planes roared past in the next minute, dropping numerous normal and incendiary bombs to this old city, one round after by another. Then began the battle on the ground.

 

Inside the abandoned old building not far away from him, someone was firing flares.The intense gunfire from afar was moving closer with great momentum, and interweaved into a hellish net. Bombing, shooting, explosions, and flames had lit the sky.

 

It was like those absurd scenes in action films, and Grantaire lost sense of reality. He lay on his spot, almost buried by the dust, while wondering about where was Enjolras at the moment.

 

Now, he was not sleepy at all.

 

He was humming random tunes he had just made up while lying in the debris. From time to time, he was choked by the dust, and needed pant for a while to recover from the violent cough. His voice sounded like weeping. 

 

In the end, the fight didn’t last for a century, not even a whole night. In the early morning, heavy gunfire and explosions gradually stopped, and only scattered shots were still heard from far away.

 

Grantaire rose up from the ruins like a deadman from his tomb. Sand and dust shedding from him like waterfall. Slowly, he walked out of the debris of Musian like a walking corpse, onto the dark street that was just turned into wasteland in the last few hours.

 

“Hey, Grand R! ” Feuilly was rushing past the other side of the street with some wounded people, and called out when spotting him.

 

“Oh, hello.” Grantaire stopped and nodded at him.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“The wheat field.”

 

“What? Why?” Feuilly called out behind him. Grantaire shrugged and made no reply. He continued towards his destination.

 

He climbed over the ruins, walked under shaky walls, crossed scorched lawns, and jumped over the bent metal railings hit by a bomb. He didn’t meet anyone along the way. After the remaining residents were evacuated underground, Paris had become a dead city.

 

He finally returned to his workplace.

 

Grantaire stood beside the field, gaping at what was in front of his eyes.

 

His truck was hit by a bomb, and turned into a pile of shapeless steel, while the vast wheat field just beside it was entirely intact. Bowing with the vigor of life, numerous plump wheatears were swaying gently in the wind.

 

He wanted to laugh, but perhaps more to cry. 

 

He wandered on the ridge for while, before stepping into the field carelessly, tramping down the wheat stalks at will, like some unruly wild animal. At last, he stretched out his arms, and let himself fell over to the small area flattened by himself. The wheat stalks were snapped and crushed, releasing a special fragrance of grass juice mixed with cool dewdrops in the early morning.

 

There was still some time before day break. Grantaire closed his eyes.

 

He was waiting. But when a person was so desperate that he didn’t even know what he was waiting for, just one sign would drive hims to a road that didn’t allow turning back.

 

Grantaire was waiting. The darkness in his eyelid was gradually turning into a brutal red, it was the blood in his veins lit by the warm light seeping from the horizon. He knew that a gigantic red monster was about to roar out of the skyline, setting light to everything.

 

Amid the soft noise of wheats brushing against each other, he heard footsteps approaching. Perhaps that was a government soldier with heavy guns. Soon, it would all be over. 

 

But Grantaire was willing to give anybody a hug with the scent of alcohol. He opened his eyes.

 

Strong wind suddenly swept over the plain, and transformed the boundless wheat field into a turbulent sea of gold. At the very moment, the horizon shattered. Countless blinding beams burst out from underneath, and shoot towards all directions, drowning everything in its own color. The clouds and the wheat field was set ablaze in the shower of red and gold. They were roaring proudly together with the wind.

 

The sun had come up. 

 

Of course, “anybody” had never included Enjolras.  So Grantaire lied on his arms and smiled at him, whose blonde waves was flying in the wind.

 

“Good morning, Apollo.”

 

Enjolras was frowning at him as usual, but didn’t dispute about the name. He simply pointed out: “You are sleeping.”

 

“I am waiting for the sun.” said Grantaire. It was half lie, half truth.

 

“They said you were going to the experiment field. I thought you had decided to undertake your duty on some random whim.” Enjolras folded his arms.

 

“I’m sorry to let you down.” Grantaire shrugged.

 

“Not that much.” replied Enjolras. 

 

“I plan to take some photos of the sunrise on the last day of my life.” Grantaire used his fingers to make a frame, then gestured it at the sun.

 

“First, today is not the last day of your life.” Enjolras refuted him patiently, “Second, you didn’t bring a camera.”

 

“Haven’t you heard that human eyes are the best cameras? Apart from that, since there’s no chance to develop the films, I guess less formalities will save me some time.” Grantaire was deft at gibbering as always.

 

“You should have done it two decades ago.” said Enjolras.

 

“Then you would get a more cynical Grantaire, perhaps starkly naked, let stuffs in and out all in a barrel. Really, what do you come for, Enjolras? Offering the last chance of salvation to the sinners in Sodom before doomsday?” Grantaire stretched his body lazily.

 

“To give you my greetings, and ask what can I do for you.”Enjolras said, with a straight face.

 

It took Grantaire two blinks to get the situation. “Oh dear, did I just heard Enjolras joking? Now I do regret not taking my camera with me, or even better, a video recorder. ‘Yes, King Alexander, stand out of my sunlight.’ For the sake of God I will give not such a reply. The Sun himself is standing in front of me.”

 

“The joke stops here.” Enjolras was frowning again, “We must leave. The air strikes and skirmishes are over. They will launch total attack in the morning. We have information that the first wave will come from this direction."

 

“You…are worried about me?” Grantaire rose abruptly, and looked up at Enjolras, “You come specially from the barricade, because you are worried that I might get caught in the attack.”

 

Enjolras didn’t answer, his face acquiescent. 

 

“But why…why you? You could have sent Courfeyrac, or Feuilly, Bahorel. Why should you come under the risk of being hit? Oh, I see. You are not the type that allows others to take risk for you. But you don’t have to, you could have just…” spoke Grantaire incoherently with lots of gestures.

 

“I should say this a long time ago: You talk too much.” Enjolras answered indifferently, while reaching out a hand towards Grantaire, who was still sitting on the ground. “Hurry, the attack may start at any minute.

 

Grantaire seemed to be at a loss while staring at that hand.

 

Enjolras looked down at him with a blank face, his hand still stretching in the air patiently. Finally, Grantaire understood the situation before him. He rubbed his dusty right hand on his shirt, before reaching it out to Enjolras with great hesitation. He looked as if about to touch a holy sculpture, rather than holding his hand.

 

His fingertips and Enjolras’ were about to touch— 

 

An artillery shell fell with a deafening bang, and exploded like thunder within fifty yards behind Grantaire, shooting heat waves and black smoke everywhere.

 

Grantaire was dragged up by Enjolras with surprising strength, and the two ran towards the barricade as fast as they could. The wheat field was burning. The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder, charcoal, and the aroma of overcooked bread. Grantaire’s brain was completely blank. Above their heads, a bright purple signal flare thrust into the pale sky with a shrill whistle. He could almost hear the roaring tanks and the shouting soldiers. He knew those iron monsters fuming with black smoke were about to run over his golden wheat field. 

 

But Enjolras is here, and nothing else matters.

 

 

TBC.

 


	12. 11

 

＊＊＊

 

**11**

 

They moved carefully through the maze-like old city, and were let into the first barricade they met into thanks to the impressive blonde hair of Enjolras. The face of those young men in it were covered with mud and blood, their clothes ripped into rags, but they were still fighting, and cried with joy when seeing Enjolras back. Enjolras spotted a body covered by a red flag at the bottom of the barricade. He walked over and asked: “Who is him?”

 

“Father Mabeuf, he sacrificed himself to buy us more time to launch the rockets.” Someone answered with a hoarse voice.

 

Enjolras lowered his knee next to the body, lifted the red flag which were used as a shroud. Grantaire saw that the old man’s face was all covered by the smear of redness, that it was hard to distinguish his facial features.

 

Enjolras bent over under the gaze of the everyone, and solemnly kissed the dead man’s forehead. His lips was stained with blood when he rose up.

 

A sudden shock ran through Grantaire’s chest like a spasm.

 

“Pull back!” Enjolras turned back to call upon those still in the barricade, “Sand bags won’t hold off the tanks. Do not throw your lives away. ”

 

A group of government soldiers circumvented the street corner and discovered them. Enjolras shot back at once, while giving orders:

 

“Cover the wounded and retreat!”

 

People were fighting back and withdrawing at the same time. Grantaire also picked up a gun from a body. Enjolras was at the end of the row. He was a sharp shooter, and quickly put down three men in the front row, and deterred the rest. But they knew clearly that, when the tanks and the main force arrived, the situation will be overturned in no time.

 

The revolutionaries eventually retreated into an old schoolhouse following Enjolras’ direction. Most of the them stayed to guard the ground floor. Grantaire wouldn’t leave Enjolras, and followed him to the classroom on the second floor. Enjolras was looking for suitable snipe positions and Grantaire joined him to cover. Under the bright daylight, they could see that the array of tanks were only two blocks away.

 

Enjolras’ eyes were fixed on the aim, but he spoke in a low voice as if talking to himself:

“You shouldn’t have come, Grantaire.”

 

“Enjolras, we are about to die.” said Grantaire. He laughed it off lightly.

 

“The good news is, all of us are together now.” Before Enjolras could reply, another voice came from outside the door—Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bossuet, Eponine, Musichetta, Joly, and Combeferre, whose arm was shot, supported by Feuilly and Bahorel, entered the room one by one.

 

“You are all alive.” Enjolras sighed with great relief.

 

“Ah, yes, and the bad new is, apart from this building, almost every barricade had been captured by enemies. We broke from their siege with about twenty people and led them here. ”

 

 “Honestly, why is everyone suddenly here? I was thinking at least the last few minutes would be just us.” Grantaire finally couldn’t help and complained.

 

“What?” asked Enjolras.

 

“Oh, nothing. ” Grantaire answered awkwardly.

 

“Ohhhhhh—” Musichetta and Eponine shook their heads together.

 

“Do you still have medicine?” Feuilly and Bahorel was putting Combeferre down at the wall. “His wound was only dressed roughly.”

 

“No, we ran out of it last night.” Enjolras shook his head.

 

“I don’t think I’ll need them anyway.” Combeferre gave them a weak smile, “If, according to the guards downstairs, the tanks are arriving in any minute.”

 

“God…Don’t speak like that. You will live, and we will win.” Jehan bent over to comfort Combeferre, but he himself looked like on the brink of tears.

 

“How many bullets do we have?” Enjolras forced his eyes to look away from Combeferre’s fresh wound.

 

“Less than one hundred for all twenty of us, you?” spoke Courfeyrac.

 

“About sixty among those downstairs, and I only have fifteen here.”

 

“That can last for a while.” Courfeyrac nodded.

 

“So, let us go back to our positions.” Enjolras leaned over behind the rifle and got ready to aim, “They are coming.”

 

The attack of government force began rapidly. At first, the pioneer corps attempted to break into the school, while quickly repelled by the defensive force on the ground floor and the barrage from upstairs. The lost many men at the gate, and retreated from the school. But before the revolutionaries could let out a sigh of relief at the brief victory, the tanks and reinforcement units had arrived.

 

Enjolras noticed the gestures exchanged between government soldiers, and his brows knitted tighter. Unsurprisingly, a group of soldiers were directing the tanks to crush the walls. A bombshell smashed a hole on the exterior of the ground floor, and the army seized chance to enter. Part of them were surround the construction, and others charged into the schoolhouse under the cover of smoke and fragments of bricks. From downstairs came the loud noise of roaring, gunshots and punching on the flesh.  But before long, the sound on the ground floor gradually died away, and the revolutionaries on the second floor had finally run out of ammunition.

 

Enjolras didn’t speak, and threw away the empty stump of his rifle.

 

The ABCs were gathering around Enjolras from all directions. Grantaire’s curls were warm under the sunlight of Paris. He was standing right beside Enjolras, his heart content. He joked after stretching his limbs: “Seems that we still have time to think about a slogan. I mean, you can keep using ‘Long live the Republic’, right? France has long been a republic, if you don’t consider whether she has lived up to the name.”

 

“It doesn’t matter. You can pick randomly from ideals, freedom, future, or thing like that and add ‘Long live’ before it. But if you ask me? It’s better to drop this ‘Long live’ thing. It’s quite silly. We are not a group of nineteenth century revolutionaries fighting against the royalists.” Combeferre let out a bitter laughter, before standing up slowly and joining the line with the rest of the group.

 

“You are always right.” sighed Grantaire, He then turned to Enjolras, whose face was glowing with resolution. “You see, I’ve told you years ago that you’ll all end up dead. Look at us now, we are like Leonidas and his three hundreds friends. Oh, apart from one thing: They won their battle.”

 

“You are always right.” Grantaire let out a sigh, before turning to Enjolras, whose expression was resolute, “You see, I’ve told you years ago, you are going to die. Look at us now, like Leonidas and his three hundred men. Oh, except one thing: they won their battle. ”

 

“Enjolras is the hunk Leonidas!” Joly laughed so much, that he almost fell over if Musichetta and Bossuet hadn’t caught him one at a side.

 

Enjolras was abashed at this, but he relied quickly: “I have no regret about the revolution.”

 

“Neither do I.” Courfeyrac was trying hard to hold back a grin.

 

“Same to me.” Combeferre smiled and nodded with approval.

 

“No regret.” Eponine spoke out proudly.

 

“We do not regret as well.” Joly stood up straight, held Bossuet and Musichetta under each arm, and announced joyfully, “In fact, I feel my rhinitis has just been cured.”

 

“Be regretful? You must be kidding me.” Bahorel shrugged and spread his hands.

 

“I do not regret it.” said Feuilly firmly.

 

“The brave men never regret.” Jehan stroke his chest like a lion and concluded in a high spirit.

 

“Fine. Look at your followers, a swarm of moths attracted by your ideals.” mumbled Grantaire, “Well, well, though I am also one of the moths, perhaps the biggest and ugliest one—but when speaking of your ideals, you can’t deny that you are fighting against the utopia under your eyes, while yearning to build another that is more distant and fanciful. ”

 

“You are still trying to annoy me even at this time.” sighed Enjolras.

 

“Sorry… It was just, it has become a bad habit to draw your attention.” spoke Grantaire guiltily.

 

“However, since you were saying I long for an utopia—” Enjolras turned back to look at Grantaire, and said peacefully, “—then you should know that all that can be realized is not an utopia. We have here here is certainly not one. If the utopia the I strive for comes true one day, it will cease to be an utopia at the same time.”

 

“Then… what’s the meaning of your devotion?” Grantaire didn’t expect Enjolras to admit outright. His familiar pattern to pester Enjolras didn’t work as planned this time.

 

 “It was just a small step on the thorny road towards the real utopia. After we die, when a revolution is needed next time, other people will stand up, and continue to push the progression of our society at the cost of blood and fire.”

 

Enjolras paused for a few seconds, before continuing:

 

“So long as the utopia doesn’t arrive, the barricade will rise, and I will be there.”

 

Grantaire was in a daze for a few seconds, and he smiled:

 

“If so, there must be me as well.”

 

“I can totally imagine it.” Courfeyrac remarked.

 

The gunfire below them had stopped completely by now, and they could hear cluttering footsteps moving towards their direction.

 

“TIme’s up.” Enjolras said in a solemn manner.

 

The door of the classroom was kicked open. A group of soldiers swarmed in, their guns level.

 

“Then, folks, we will meet at the next barricade.”said Grantaire, pursing his lips, as if unmindful about those killing tools.

 

“—Ready!”

 

“Till the next barricade.” The ABCs said in one voice, and smiled at each other with delight, as if they were also unaware of the black muzzles pointing at them.

 

“—Aim!”

 

Grantaire turned his head in a haste, and looked expectantly at Enjolras, who didn’t speak. By some unknown nudge, he asked the question as if it was the most natural thing to do in the world.

 

“Will you permit it?”

 

Enjolras met his eyes. He answered with a smile and the tight grip of Grantaire’s hand.

 

Grantaire felt his own soul—that pile of lead formed from the mixture of beer, brandy and absinth—was sizzling under the sun, melted, gushed out after burning through his chest, and dripped onto the floor covered with dust, gunpowder and wood crumbs.

 

He didn’t even notice the shot.

 

 

 

fin.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the author:  
> I insist this is a happy ending. It is common sense in ER fandom that dying together with the one you love equals HE. (no it's not (well, not really (this time even the with all of ABC
> 
> I need to repeat, that I have no idea about the meaning of my writing.

**Author's Note:**

> This work by the amazing Gokurakutei(極楽亭) is considered to be ·the·best· of all ER fics by many (at least in Chinese lol). I decide to translate it because it definitely deserves a wider readership.
> 
> The Chinese original was first posted on Lofter in January 2015  
> ➡️http://gokurakutei.lofter.com/post/2695ec_5495a2f
> 
> We are both very curious about what reception it'll get here in AO3, please kindly leave a comment about your thoughts and suggestions *wink*


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